Stephen Dixon: Letters to Kevin

Yours sincerely,

Rudy

Dear Kevin: If my last letter ever gets out of its mailbox and is sent to you in even three times the normal number of mailing days, I’m sure it will reach you long before me. Because even if it hasn’t been three times the normal number of mailing days since I started out to see you, by the way I’m going it will take me as long as it would a letter traveling to you from New York by ship with several stops to sightsee. Let me explain. First thing, I got in a cab in front of the phone building and said “Kennedy Airport, please.” I was going to take the first plane leaving for San Francisco and then bus the fifteen miles to you from the San Francisco Airport. The cabby drove to the airport, pulled up in front of an airline terminal and said “Twenty dollars.” “Twenty dollars?” I said. I thought that was a lot of money for a cab ride, but all right. I was in a rush to see you and win that race against the letter, and he did drive well. It was also an especially lot of money for me as I didn’t have a cent. “Just a second while I find my money,” I said. I reached behind me, fingered around between the seat’s padding for loose change that other passengers might have lost, and found a quarter. “Here’s a twenty-five-cent tip for you, my good man, and thanks very much.” “You’re very much welcome. Now what about my twentydollar fare?” “Listen. I heard you drivers like to squeeze as much money as possible out of your passengers, but this is going too far. I was nice enough to give you a tip when not every rider does, right?” “Right,” he said. “But only for this time, what do you say I give you back your quarter tip for my twenty-dollar fare?” “You’ve no reason to tip me. It would be different if we had exchanged seats from the beginning and I had driven you out here and talked your ears off and you had sat back and enjoyed the scenery and smooth ride. No, it wouldn’t be fair.” “And what would be fair — your not giving me my fare?” This time he was right. So I got back in his cab and he drove to the city. Now we were even. He gave me back my tip, I didn’t give him his fare, and we were just where we started from: him cruising the street for passengers and me looking for a cab in front of the phone building. I hailed another cab and said “Drive me in the direction of Kennedy Airport as far as a quarter will take me.” The cabby said “The lowest starting fare is two dollars. Then it’s twenty cents for each additional sixth of a mile after that.” “Then drive to the airport in reverse. That way, when the meter goes down from two dollars to twenty-five cents, you can raise the meter flag no matter where we are and I’ll get out and pay you a quarter.” I closed my eyes and relaxed as the cab drove in reverse. At least I was on my way again, or again way my on. The meter dropped from two dollars to a dollar-eighty to one-sixty and so on till it reached twenty cents. The driver stopped the cab, raised the meter flag and said “This is where you agreed to be let off.” “But the meter doesn’t say twenty-five cents.” “It says twenty cents. Taxi meters only go up and back a notch by dimes, not nickels.” “Then I’d like my five cents change.” “Fair enough,” she said. “Now that you mention it, the fare’s too much, I’d like it to be nothing all the way to the airport. But I guess you can’t expect everything.” “You mean you can’t expect nothing.” “I feel I should at least get something for nothing.” “Something for nothing I can give you,” and she got out of the cab and pushed it six more inches in reverse. I gave her the quarter and she handed me my change. I wanted to give her the nickel as a tip, but that would have left me penniless. Or at least nickel-less, since I was sure I could turn up a penny if I searched through all my pockets. I got out of the cab. What she’d done was drive in reverse around the block and leave me in front of the phone building. And I now had twenty cents less than when I started out with her and only a nickel to my name. But I’d change that. I searched through all my pockets, but couldn’t turn up the penny I was so convinced I could. So even though I still had a nickel, I was now penniless. Only thing to do next was hail another cab to the airport, as no planes took off from the streets around the phone building or any streets in the city that I knew of. Though say a plane did take off from one of these streets and I got on it, that plane might be flying to Lisbon or London or places like that while I wanted to get to San Francisco — the closest city to Palo Alto with a major airport. Ihailed another cab. “Where you want to go?” the driver said. “Eventually, I’d like to get to Palo Alto, California.” “Let me check the taxi rates.” He opened a book for out-oftown hauls and said “The fare from New York to Palo Alto is three and a half cents.” “Fine,” I said, “as I’ve still got a nickel.” “Can’t take you then, as I have no change,” and he drove off. I walked a few blocks, thinking I’d have better luck getting a cab somewhere else, and saw a bus stop. I waited till a bus came, and just as the sign said, the bus stopped.

I got on and said “Does this bus go to Palo Alto, California, perhaps?” “No,” the driver said, “the next one does.” He laughed into his hand. A few passengers sitting behind him snickered into their hands too. “Where does this bus go to then?” “Menlo Park, California. That’s the next town over from Palo Alto, which will be okay for you if you don’t mind the short walk.” “I can always hitch from Menlo if the short walk’s too far.” “Never thought of that,” and he laughed again. But this time he broke up and all the passengers doubled over in their seats and broke up with laughs too. I looked around, wondering what was causing it. Then I saw. My typewriter case was open and my typewriter could be seen, I quickly snapped it shut. “I’m glad you did that,” the driver said. “It was too embarrassing to tell you about it and I thought it best not to say anything till you found out yourself. Now that you know about it, I guess I can talk about your case being open. Though now that your case is closed, I suppose it’s wrong speaking about it being open unless it becomes open again.” “If there’s any problem, I’ll gladly open it again if you want.” “No. It would be too embarrassing to tell you that it’s open if you did. And then everyone in the bus and I would startbusting a gut over it being open again and you wouldn’t know what we were laughing at. And I’d want to tell you that it’s because your case is open, but I’d be too embarrassed to say it to your face.” “I could turn around and you could say it to my back.” “No. Bus regulations are very explicit that passengers, unless moving to the rear please, must face front at all times.” He closed the door and drove off, even though there wasn’t a sign at the corner that said “ BUS GO.” But that was his business. If the police caught him going through a bus stop sign, he’d be the one breaking the law, not us. As for me, whenever I walk I try to avoid streets that have stop signs at their corners. Because if there isn’t another sign that says “ GO,” I usually stand there a long time waiting for some street workers to erect a “ GO” sign or at least take away the stop sign or lay it on its side, upside down, so I can’t see it. I sat in the one seat that wasn’t taken. “Didn’t you forget something, buddy?” the driver said. I looked at the men and boys in the bus to see if anyone by the name of Buddy was going to answer him. They were all staring at me as if they thought my name was Buddy, so I said to the driver “Did you mean me?” “I didn’t mean my Aunt Tilly.” “That’s a coincidence,” I said. “Because I also have an Aunt Tilly and it isn’t a common name.” “You do? Well, how is your Aunt Tilly these days?” “Fine, thanks. How’s your Aunt Tilly?” “She’s fine also. And how is your Aunt Tilly?” he asked the boy seated right behind him. “Great, I guess. How’s your Aunt Tilly?” the boy asked the woman beside him. “Never better,” she said, “and it’s so sweet of you to ask. But how is your Aunt Tilly?” she said to the man across the aisle from her. “Doing wonderful,” he said. “Pulse is strong, temperature’s back to normal. But how is your Aunt Tilly?” he asked the woman next to him. “I am Aunt Tilly,” she said. “Aunt Tilly,” he said. “I haven’t seen you for so long, I didn’t recognize you.” “I was patiently sitting here waiting for you to say something, but you were never a thoughtful nephew.”